When I Cannot Write A Poem, I

The Signs That Presage Growth, So Similar, It Seems To Me, To Those In Early Adolescence: Discontent, Restlessness, Doubt, Despair, Longing, Are Interpreted Falsely As Signs Of Decay. In Youth One Does Not As Often Misinterpret The Signs; One Accepts Them, Quite Rightly, As Growing Pains. One Takes Them Seriously, Listens To Them, Follows Where They Lead. ... But In The Middle Age, Because Of The False Assumption That It Is A Period Of Decline, One Interprets These Life-signs, Paradoxically, As Signs Of Approaching Death.

Go With The Pain, Let It Take You. Open Your Palms And Your Body To The Pain. It Comes In Waves Like The Tide And You Must Be Open As A Vessel Lying On The Beach, Letting It Fill You Up And Then, Retreating, Leaving You Empty And Clear.

The Nicest Gifts Are Those Left, Nameless And Quiet, Unburdened With Love, Or Vanity, Or The Desire For Attention.

When One Is A Stranger To Oneself, Then One Is Estranged From Others, Too.

There Is No Harvest For The Heart Alone. The Seed Of Love Must Be Eternally Re-sown.